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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=511093" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Roman Centurion's Song</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Roman Occupation of Britain, A.D. 300</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Legate, I had the news last night --my cohort ordered home<br>By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.<br>I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:<br>Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall,<br>I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.<br>Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near <br>That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done;<br>Here where my dearest dead are laid--my wife--my wife and son;<br>Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love,<br>Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields surffice.<br>What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies,<br>Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze--<br>The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine an olive lean<br>Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean<br>To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on,<br>Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines<br>Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.<br>You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but--will you e'er forget<br>The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let me work here for Britain's sake--at any task you will--<br>A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.<br>Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,<br>Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Legate, I come to you in tears--My cohort ordered home!<br>I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?<br>Here is my heart, my soul, my mind--the only life I know.<br>I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rudyard+Kipling">Rudyard Kipling</a><div class=q>
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Legate, I had the news last night --my cohort ordered home
By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Co..."></div>
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